by David Debord
“Master Moylan, would it be permissible for me to take this young man off your hands? I’ve been asked to give him remedial lessons and I fear my time is short.”
At the words “remedial lessons,” Moylan gave Oskar a nasty grin and some the other novits working the kitchens snickered.
“Of course. I was nearly finished with him anyway.”
Oskar ignored the glances from the other novits as he dried his hands and straightened his sodden robe. Some whispered comments about “country louts needing extra lessons” and snickered. The pain from what felt like a thousand bruises hobbled him as he followed Aspin through the back door of the kitchen and into an empty hallway. He’d been so distracted by his various hurts that he’d made a poor showing in his first Logic class. His slow response time had frustrated Master Dac Kien, who had finally thrown up his hands in frustration and muttered something about starting a fire with wet logs. At least, that’s what Oskar thought he heard. The brown-skinned master, whom everyone said hailed from beyond the Sun Sands, spoke with a pronounced accent.
A sharp pain in his leg yanked Oskar’s thoughts back to the present, and he glanced at Aspin. “What did you need to see me about?”
“Not here,” Aspin whispered. He led Oskar along a series of deserted corridors, finally coming to a halt in a turret with a window overlooking the city. “I’ll make this brief. I believe the world faces a danger much greater than the wars between Galdora and Kyrin, or the instability caused by Duke Karst.”
“The Frostmarch,” Oskar whispered.
“Yes, and the Silver Serpent is the key to defeating Tichris.”
Oskar winced at the mention of the Ice King’s true name.
“We know so little about Serpent lore,” Aspin continued. “The prophecies about it are few, and the way it seems to work for Shanis contradicts what I thought I knew about it. I had hoped to spend time here continuing my research in hopes of finding something that will help Shanis, but I’ve been watched since our arrival, and now the prelate is sending me away.”
“Where?” Oskar felt panic welling up inside him. Although the two of them had not been in contact, the knowledge that Aspin was at the Gates, close by should Oskar need him, had been a source of comfort. Oskar was out of his depth, and now he was losing the closest thing to an ally he had.
“To Kyrin. They want me to try and negotiate peace between the Kyrinians and the Galdorans.” He shook his head and turned toward the window. “It’s futile, but I must try. This is the worst possible time for Kyrin to dredge up old grudges.”
Oskar moved to the seeker’s side. The sun had gone down and all around the city, lanterns and candles twinkled in windows. He still could not believe so many people could live in a single place. “Why are you telling me this? What can I do?”
“I need you to do the research for me. The Frostmarch could begin any day and if we don’t know how to defeat the Ice King, all is lost.”
“Do the research? I’m a novit. I can’t access the archives. Even if I could, why me? There are plenty of people here older and wiser who probably know the place better than I.”
“Things are complicated here. There are many factions, each with their own agendas, and they trade in secrets like a farmer trades in produce. I know I can trust you. I can’t say that about anyone else, save the prelate.”
“Could he grant me access to the archives?”
“No!” Aspin turned on Oskar, his eyes burning. “You must not let anyone know I’ve given you this charge, not even the prelate. Do nothing that might arouse suspicion.”
“All right, but I still don’t see how I’m going to get inside.”
“You found the lost city of Murantha; you can find your way inside the archives.”
The mention of Murantha reminded Oskar of his missing book, and he told Aspin the story. The seeker’s brow furrowed as he listened.
“Odd. Of course, I’ve never known a novit to bring a book along with him, so perhaps it’s not that unusual that Corwine would want to give it a closer look. Once Corwine realizes it is no more than your personal journal along with excerpts from books you’ve read, I’m sure he’ll return it.”
“But I wrote about our search for the Silver Serpent, about finding the Ramsgate, Thandryll, and Murantha. And there are the glyphs, of course.”
“Glyphs?” Aspin’s voice was sharp as a knife.
“The interior walls of the buildings in Murantha are covered in glyphs. I made several pages of rubbings.” He shrugged. “I supposed I thought I might translate them some day.”
“You never told me about the glyphs. Never mind. You had no reason to.” Aspin began to pace. “If anyone asks you about the portions of the book relating to the Serpent, you must tell them it was merely a story you heard along the way. Something you recorded because you found it entertaining.”
Oskar nodded. “I suppose I need a story about the rubbings as well.”
“Possibly. Make it a simple lie and do not change your story.” Aspin froze and held up a hand. Footsteps echoed somewhere in the distance. “We are almost out of time,” Aspin whispered.
“What am I looking for, exactly?”
“Anything we don’t already know about the Silver Serpent. Its history, prophecies, whatever you can find.”
Oskar considered this. He was aware of two such prophecies: that the bearer of the Silver Serpent held the key to the survival of the Galdoran monarchy, and that the bearer of the Silver Serpent would reunite Lothan.
“I’m relying on you. Tell no one what you are doing.” Aspin gave Oskar’s shoulder a squeeze and sent him on his way.
Oskar’s feet felt heavier with each step as he returned to his quarters. Making it through his novit classes was a daunting enough prospect. Now, with Aspin’s task added to his burden, it all seemed impossible.
His sleep was filled with fitful dreams, most of which involved Shanis being attacked by minions of the Ice King, and he woke nearly as tired as when he’d lain down. As his roommates stirred, he rolled over, put his head in his hands, and groaned.
“You all right?” Whitt asked. “It’s only your second day of classes. You’re not going to make it if it’s already taking that much of a toll on you.”
“I’m sure landing himself on kitchen duty didn’t help,” Dacio added as he tugged on his robe. “That’s hard work.”
“Not nearly as hard as having Agen beat me with a stick for an hour.” Oskar’s work in the kitchens and the assignment from Aspin had temporarily distracted him from his aches and pains, but today he felt them all over. His arms, legs, and sides were a mass of bruises, plus a few dark patches where Agen had tried to skewer him with his practice sword.
“No need to worry about that today,” Naseeb said with annoying cheerfulness. “Just lots of boring classes on the schedule. No combat training.”
Oskar supposed he should be grateful for that, but the prospect of sitting in wooden chairs all day was hardly more appealing than sword practice. His father had taught him the best way to get rid of soreness was to work it out. Of course, that advice was more helpful after a long day of working on the farm. He doubted exercise did much to alleviate the pain of bruised ribs.
He dressed and followed his friends to the dining hall, limping until they reached the doorway. He was determined not to let Agen see him in pain. Fortunately, Agen and his friends were nowhere to be seen. They sat down with a group of fellow novits and while his roommates chattered, he ate his porridge and bacon in silence.
“What are you hiding?” Naseeb’s voice was so low it scarcely carried to Oskar’s ears.
“Nothing, I’m just tired and sore.” Oskar took a sip of caf, the dark, bitter drink that, according to Dacio, came from somewhere across the Sun Sands.
“Bollocks. There’s something on your mind, and you’re doing a lousy job of hiding it. Come on. Tell me.”
Oskar considered telling Naseeb the whole story. He would love to have an ally in this, and he felt h
e could trust Naseeb. But, Aspin had instructed him to tell no one about his charge. Then again, he could ask Naseeb’s help getting into the archives without telling him why he needed to get inside. His gran would have said he was dancing with a badger, but right now he didn’t care. He felt beaten down and completely alone, and he needed a friend.
“I need to get inside the archives.” He took another sip of caf and looked at Naseeb, who appeared nonplussed.
“You can’t. Your book isn’t worth the trouble you’d get in if they catch you. They might turn you out.”
“It’s not about my book. I need to get inside for another reason. I can’t tell you why, but I promise it’s important. Will you help me?” He waited, heart pounding, wondering if he’d placed his trust in the wrong person. What if Naseeb told on him?
“I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t know how to get inside the archives. I suppose you could pick the lock if you know how, but Master Corwine’s quarters are near the entrance, and you’d have a difficult time getting past him. I hear he rarely sleeps.”
“I don’t know how to pick the lock in any case. We’ve got to figure out something.” Oskar felt as though a giant hand were squeezing his chest, constricting his breathing. He couldn’t do this. It was impossible.
“But why do you need to get inside if not to recover your book?”
“I need to help a friend.” He wondered how much more he could say without going against Aspin’s orders.
“I don’t understand. If your friend needs something researched, why doesn’t he do it himself?” Naseeb filched a slice of bacon off of Whitt’s plate and munched it while Oskar considered the question.
“She can’t. I mean, he can’t.”
Naseeb laughed. “You don’t even know if your friend is a man or a woman? You’d better pay close attention during lessons in case we cover that topic.”
Oskar threw the last bit of his own bacon at Naseeb but missed badly. The bacon landed in the hood of an initiate who sat with his back to them. The two boys fell to laughing until Dacio hushed them.
“Master Moylan is looking this way,” he hissed.
Oskar wiped his eyes with his sleeve and sipped his caf. He was already coming to enjoy the drink. Finally, he regained his composure.
“It’s hard to explain. What I need to do will help more than one person. I wish I could say more, but I’m not allowed to.”
“Not allowed? That means you’re doing this on someone’s orders. So, you’re either working for someone inside the Gates who doesn’t want to risk someone finding out what he’s researching, or else you’re working for someone on the outside, in which case you could be executed as a traitor.”
“It’s not someone outside,” Oskar hurried, and then caught himself. “Look, I’m not going to say anything else since I can’t seem to help saying too much. You’re too clever by half, which is why I need you. Will you help me?”
Naseeb considered the question for a moment, and finally nodded. “All right. I’ll see if I can come up with something, but I will not go in there with you, and if you mention my name, I’ll deny everything. Understood?”
“Yes, and thank you.” Oskar raised his cup but, before he could take a drink, someone banged into him from behind, causing him to spill the contents all over the table. The people around him scrambled off the benches with cries of surprise and annoyance. Oskar whirled around to see Agen grinning at him.
“So clumsy of me. Would you like me to get you another cup?” His smile said he was anything but sorry.
Fists clenched, Oskar made to rise, but Whitt shoved him back down.
“Master Moylan is coming this way.”
Sure enough, the kitchen master was stalking toward them, his face red. As he strode through the hall, a wave of silence rolled ahead of him, and all the initiates and novits looked around for the source of his ire.
When he arrived at the table, he stared at the pool of caf, his jaw working and his expression unreadable.
Out of the corner of his eye, Oskar saw Agen and his friends moving away. Of course Agen wouldn’t take any blame for what happened.
“What happened here?” Moylan asked after a lengthy silence.
“Someone bumped into me and I spilled my caf,” Oskar said. “I’m sorry.”
“And you just sat here. Who did you think was going to clean up your mess? Perhaps you think I am a servant?”
“No, not at all. I just hadn’t gotten up yet.”
“Perhaps another night’s work in the kitchens will teach you to move more quickly. Report here tonight at the same time as last night.” Moylan’s gaze dared him to object, but Oskar was no fool.
“Yes, Master. Again, I’m sorry.”
Apparently satisfied, Moylan gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and headed back toward the kitchens. Gradually, quiet conversation rippled across the dining hall. Disheartened, Oskar gathered his plate and cup and went off in search of a cloth with which to clean up his spill. Today promised to be no better than yesterday.
Chapter 11
The sun hung high above the horizon when Hierm, Edrin, and Mattyas, who still preferred his nickname “Hair” despite his newly-shorn locks, rode into Galsbur. The village looked much as Hierm remembered, save the stockade wall surrounding the center of town. The wood was charred and broken in places, and a wide swath of land had been cleared all around, the land trampled. Clearly, there had been a battle here. Hierm’s throat tightened as he wondered who had survived... and who had not.
A gate stood open and unguarded, and they rode into town unnoticed. Few people were about at this time of morning. Most would be tending their crops or about other tasks.
“It seems like forever since I was here last,” Hair said, looking out across the circle of green grass in the center of town.
“The tournament.” Even after all the time spent on the trail together, Edrin remained a man of few words.
Guided by prophecy, or so he thought, Prince Lerryn had held a tournament in Galsbur. Hierm had competed in the sword, Edrin in archery, and Mattyas in wrestling.
Hierm guided his horse along the path that circled the green and stopped in front of the warehouse that belonged to his family. His stomach lurched as he took in the scene. Both the warehouse and his family home alongside it bore signs of abandonment. Weeds grew thick in his mother’s flower beds and the windows were dusty. And although it was the middle of the day, the warehouse was closed up tight.
He dismounted, tied up his horse, and told his companions to wait. An icy certainty pouring over him, he ran first to the warehouse, trying every door, and finding them locked.
“Father!” he called, banging on the office door. There was no answer.
He ran to the house and found it, too, to be sealed up tight. He brushed a thick netting of cobwebs away from the window and peered inside. He saw nothing. He banged on the door and called several times for his father, hoping, irrationally, that Hiram was perhaps ill and in bed. After several futile minutes, he gave up.
The looks that Hair and Edrin gave him held too much sympathy for his liking. He untied his horse and mounted up without acknowledging them. Turning his mount about, he put his heels to its flanks and set off at a trot for the inn. Perhaps someone in the common room would know where his father had gone.
“Maybe he headed to Archstone to find your mother,” Hair offered, trotting alongside him.
“We would have passed him on the road.”
“Perhaps.” Hair lapsed into silence as they approached the inn.
Hierm hesitated before dismounting. He wanted his father to be alive, but something told him that the worst had happened, and he wasn’t ready to hear it. He and his father had had their share of rows, the last few the worst. Hierm had left Galsbur before the two of them could patch up their differences. Now, he wondered if he would ever get the chance.
He climbed the steps of the Dry Birch, the inn run by Khalyndryn Serrill’s family. Khalyndryn. His heart sank. Wo
uld he have to be the one to deliver the news of her death, or had Lerryn already told them?
Two men sat inside: one a thick-set, fair-haired man, the other a mountain of a man with dark, shaggy hair. Master Serrill and Colin Malan. Colin’s eyes widened and he lurched to his feet.
“Hierm!” He embraced Hierm roughly and greeted Hair and Edrin. “It’s good to see you, boy. How have you been?”
“I’m all right. Have you seen my father?”
The dark look in Colin’s eyes answered his question. Dizzy, Hierm dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“I am sorry.” Colin pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. “You should know he died bravely— defending the village from an invading force. We sent a messenger to your mother in Archstone. Something must have happened to him.”
Hierm fought to maintain his composure. He had a task to complete, and he couldn’t fulfill it by sitting here weeping over the dead. He raised his head as Master Serrill set out mugs of ale for Hierm and his companions. And then he remembered another death.
“Master Serrill, I need to tell you about Khalyndryn.”
“It’s all right. I already know. Prince Lerryn told us the news.” The innkeeper turned and hurried away.
“What about Shanis?” Colin asked. “Lerryn told me she was well and in Lothan, but that was all he said.”
Hierm hesitated. Would Colin believe what he was about to tell him? “She was well last I saw her. There’s something you should know.” He took a gulp of ale to buy time, but he could think of no way to ease the man into the story.
“We went in search of the Silver Serpent. And we found it.” The clatter of breaking glass rang out on the other side of the common room. Master Serrill had dropped a mug, and he now stood gaping at Hierm. “It seems Shanis is the one destined to bear it.”
Surprisingly, Colin merely stroked his beard and nodded.
“When I left, she was headed to a place called Calmut.”
